About the Time I Decided to Adopt a Cat (Or Rather, a Cat Adopted Me)

I hated cats.
Like, actively hated them.
Thought they were mean, stinky, rude, mysterious, possessed little assholes who would scratch your eyes out just for breathing near them. (That last part I still believe).

They were the kind of animal you politely avoided at someone else’s house and then gossiped about later.
“They just stare at you.”
“They don’t even wag their tails.”
“Did you know they poop in sand and walk away like they did something noble?”
No. Thank you.

Fast forward to my 27th birthday.
I’m living at the beach, the sun is blazing, my skin is golden, and I’m celebrating in true chaotic fashion: tanning all day, drinking since noon, and surrounded by a gang of sunburnt friends who were equally feral.

And then someone says the words that would change my life forever:

“Hey, there’s a tiny cat outside.”

We all stumble to the door, drunk and giggling, expecting to see some mangy, unhinged beach goblin.
But no.
It’s a baby.
A teeny, tiny, stupidly adorable baby cat with comically small ears and one lone white whisker among a sea of gray.
He looked fake. Like someone shrunk a normal cat down to travel size and dropped it outside my front door for dramatic effect.

Obviously, we did what any responsible adults would do.
We took him inside.
We gave him a tortilla chip.
We poured more tequila.
We partied with the cat.

It was the best night of his life. And mine.
He didn’t leave. And neither did we.
We stayed up yelling, dancing, holding this baby cat like he was Simba, letting him walk across the table like some kind of honored guest.

The next morning, I woke up in a hangover fog so thick I didn’t remember my own birthday — But there he was.
Sleeping on a pile of towels in my laundry basket like he lived there.

And I thought:
“Oh no. No. Nope. No.”

Fast-forward 8 years later. He is my son. (No, for real, like I birthed him, ok?). My angry, grumpy, dramatic, needy son.

His name is Pato, and he is the love of my life. (So glad my other pets can’t read).
He yells at me daily. He demands attention and food like a tiny entitled king. He is, without question, the most annoying and perfect creature I’ve ever known.

And I am now a full-blown, shameless, obsessive cat person.

Like… cat memes saved on my phone level.
Like “look at my baby” while showing someone a blurry photo of a loaf of fur level.
Like I have a tone of voice reserved only for him and it is HIGH PITCHED AND STUPID level.

I didn’t want him.
But he wanted me.
And that was enough.

Sometimes the best things in your life sneak in while you’re distracted — drunk, dancing, not paying attention.
Sometimes they arrive looking like a mistake or a stray or something you swore you’d never love.
And if you’re lucky (and mildly hungover), you’ll wake up one day and realize you’ve let something truly good into your life.
Even if it pees in a box and screams at birds.

He’s 8 now. He meows like he pays rent, demands snacks at all hours, and bites me when he’s bored.
I love him more than most people.